


blue never fades

by yami (blind_man_sun)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: AU, Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Other, Sad with a Sad Ending, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blind_man_sun/pseuds/yami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forget losing their shadow. They almost wished if the Faction had taken their tattoo. It would be better than staring at it, day after day, waiting for the rest of the colors to appear, waiting for Fitz to let down his walls, being scared of pushing him too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blue never fades

**Author's Note:**

> i forgot about this for like a year whoops. 3000 words exactly!! wow

When they’d woken up with no memory of who they were the first thing they’d seen in the cold, blue light had been thick black lines appearing on the skin of their inner wrist, and that had scared them almost as much as waking up in a morgue.

-

“Everyone has them,” Grace said, putting her stethoscope away. “Even…whatever you are.”

“What are they?” They asked, still confused, latched onto her like a duckling because her face was the only thing they remembered.

“Well…” Grace paused, one corner of her mouth twitching into a tiny smile. “They call them soulmate marks. Or tattoos. It depends on who you’re asking, really. Look.” She held her wrist out to them, and they could see tiny stars scattered across the skin. The colors were faded, like a picture that’d been left out in the sun too long. “I was always my own soulmate, but I’m not quite ready yet.” Grace tapped her wrist wryly. “The colors haven’t come in all the way.”

They looked down at their own wrist, pulling the sleeve of their stolen coat away from the dark lines. There wasn’t any color on theirs, and the black ink stood out starkly against their pale skin. “I’ve got a flower,” they said quietly, looking down at the small potted plant.

“That you do,” Grace observed. “Maybe you’re meant to fall for a florist.”

-

They’d remembered about the tattoos at the same moment they’d remembered Gallifrey. So many markings, rows of them, on every former version of themselves. Susan, Jamie, Jo… “I remember!” They’d shouted, and they’d kissed Grace, because they were so happy.

-

The Master had worn gloves, but they’d caught a glimpse of something dark and shifting beneath the hem, the colors burning bright.

-

They’d noticed the blue of Grace’s starry sky before they’d left, soft and beautiful, more vibrant that it’d been that day she’d taken them home.

-

Sam had hidden hers at first. She’d been embarrassed, she said, because she had so many. A line of tattoos up her inner arm, all of them still in black-and-white. They’d told her not to worry, and they’d shown her theirs. “I don’t have any color either,” they said. “It’s not important. Where do you want to go now?”

-

They’d found her in the kitchen once, markers scattered all across the table, furiously trying to color in one of her tattoos. It was a butterfly, and they noticed the tears spring up in her eyes when the blue simply faded right away.

-

The begonia was dying, but that was okay. They could fix it. It was their calling, after all.

-

There was a boy at the counter, messy-haired and scruffy, with an air of studied nonchalance, and suddenly their wrist was burning, so much that they almost dropped the begonia. They set it down and pulled their sleeve back, looking at their wrist.

“That can’t be right…” They frowned at the tattoo, upset that only half of it had decided to color in, leaving the petals blank and lifeless. They glanced at the boy, who suddenly flinched back, staring at his own wrist in shock.

-

“When did that happen?” They pointed at Fitz’s wrist, at the two small hearts there.

“Oh.” He paused, concentrating on buttoning his shirt back up. “At the plant center, actually, when you tried to buy that begonia.”

“I’ve got two hearts, you know,” they said casually, watching curiously as Fitz’s ears turned pink.

“Probably just coincidence. C’mon, don’t we have to find Sam?” 

-

The other Sam didn’t have a tattoo, just scores of needle marks up and down her arms. She jerked her wrist back and glared at them angrily, defensively. “I haven’t got a mark, so what? It’s not like yours is any better, only half done in like that.”

-

Forget losing their shadow. They almost wished if the Faction had taken their tattoo. It would be better than staring at it, day after day, waiting for the rest of the colors to appear, waiting for Fitz to let down his walls, being scared of pushing him too far. They’d kissed him once, and thought they might like to do it again, but he was skittish.

-

They hadn’t seen Sarah Jane in so long. They’d forgotten how bright her mark was, always had been. Sarah Jane had never needed anyone but herself.

-  
“Why are you people all so stupid?”

Oh.

Oh no.

There was a horrible hollow feeling in their chest as they turned around and realized that they’d forgotten all about Fitz, and here he was staring them in the face, only now it was too late.

-

“You want him back.”

Their wrist burned.

-

The rest of the colors filled in after that, the petals on the flower a lovely pearlescent blue, and they felt sick, like they’d kicked a puppy, or torn the wings off something delicate.

-

Fitz hid, and sometimes, if they stood in exactly the right place, they could hear his music in the hallways, lost and lonely and aching.

-

Compassion hated her mark. They’d never seen it, because she always kept it covered up. “It’s pointless,” she said coldly. “I don’t need it. I’m fine just the way I am.”

“They’re there for a reason, Compassion,” Fitz pointed out, and she sneered at him.

“Maybe for you. I’m not a hapless idiot in love like you are.” She swept out of the room then, leaving Fitz at a loss for words, and they had to hide a smile, because he really did look adorable with his face all red like that.

-

“They’re blue,” Fitz said. “The same color as the TARDIS.”

They were leaning against a tree trunk, watching the butterflies dance above their head. Fitz was sitting next to them, dragging a stick through the grass. “It’s a nice color,” they replied looking at the petals on their wrist.

“Yeah.” He broke the stick in half idly, throwing one end into the air and watching it tumble down, butterflies flitting around it. “Mine’s blue too, see?” He pulled the sleeve of his battered leather jacket back and they could see his mark, two small hearts, bright against pale skin.

“I do.” They hadn’t seen Fitz’s tattoo since before…everything, and this felt like a moment of vulnerability, and they were touched. Impulsively, they picked up his hand and brought it to their mouth, kissing the inside of his wrist. “It’s a lovely color.”

-

She’d gotten rid of her mark, they noticed. “I can do what I want now,” Compassion said. “And I wanted it gone.”

-

“Madame President.”

“Doctor,” Romana said coolly, her wrists as bare as everyone else’s save for them. Their people had long ago figured out how to remove the marks entirely, but they’d never thought she’d give in. “About your TARDIS…”

-

The boot slammed into their side and they tried to resist the urge to cry. Their fault their fault their fault…

“So you finally got all the colors, huh?” A gauntleted hand grabbed their wrist, twisting their arm at a vicious angle, and they cried out. “Who was it, then? That copy? You just got up and made yourself a soulmate?” The man dropped their arm in disgust, kicking them again and again. “That’s not how it works!”

They couldn’t see his face, only a skull, but they knew who he was and they were sorry, so so so sorry.

-

Their wrist was burning.

Gallifrey was burning.

They had to find the Doctor.

-

They’d woken up on the train with no memory, only a cube, a note, a name. Fitz.

-

Old women would coo over them. “Oh, look at him,” they said. “Look at his adorable little mark. I bet you have a sweet young woman at home, don’t you?” They didn’t know what was worse- the sour taste the wrong pronouns left in their mouth, or the fact that somewhere out there was their soulmate, only they didn’t know who they were or how to get to them.

-

They let a man burn once, but their soul was cold.

-

They would stay up late, some nights, talking to Alan, and they would both hide their marks from each other. It hurt too much.

-

“Who’s that for, Father?” Miranda asked, and they looked up from their book. It would be easy enough to brush the question off, but she was a smart child. They loved her.

“I don’t know,” they said, and they knew she heard the sadness in their voice. Miranda’s own mark was colorless, but she was young and that was only to be expected. There were stars, so many of them, and sometimes when they looked at her they thought they could remember.

-

They’d been waiting a hundred years to meet their soulmate. If they were the romantic type, and if they’d read it in a book, they would think it was quite sweet. But in reality it burned and ached and they were so, so tired.

-

“Don’t you remember?”

No.

-

Anji had two. The second mark had faded after Dave died, echoing the grief in her eyes.

-

“Why do these sort of things always happen to you?” His fingers were warm, but the water against their wound stung. 

“Does this happen a lot, then?”

“Oh yeah.” Fitz snorted, still concentrating on cleaning the wound. “Harpooning is new, though.”

“I see.” They were quiet, watching him. He obviously cared for them, but they didn’t remember why he should.

-

It was embarrassing. They barely knew the man and they’d gone ahead and admitted he made them feel like they were home.

-

It wasn’t fair, making Fitz keep their memories for them, but they were scared. 

He doesn’t complain.

-

“I’ve had a song stuck in my head for a hundred years,” they remarked casually, and Anji looked at them.

“That sounds awful. I can barely handle having one in there for a day.”

“It is.” They paused, looking up into the sky, and thinking about butterflies and tigers and four notes endlessly repeating. “It’s the only thing I remember and I don’t even know who wrote it.”

“Must’ve been someone pretty important,” Anji offered, and they hummed thoughtfully.

“I think you’re right.”

-

Karl’s had been a score, dozens of tiny notes winding up his arm. They’d tried to play it once, to see if the marks could be arranged into music, but they’d failed horribly. Karl laughed, and they did too.

-

Anji was afraid of them, and they wanted to scream at Fitz, to tell him to be afraid too. They were too dangerous, too wild, too unhuman. They’d been stuck on Earth for a century and they needed to escape but they couldn’t, couldn’t ever get away from its people, and they resented humanity, and most of how they resented how Fitz refused to leave their side because he deserved so much better than them.

-

It’s for you, isn’t it.

That’s what they want to say, but the words stick, and they try something else instead. “Do you know why it’s a flower?”

“Well, uh.” He looked away, turning red. “You don’t remember, but the first time we met, it was in a garden center. I was working there then. You bought a begonia from me.” He glanced back at them. “What?”

“Nothing.” They ducked their head, staring down at the worn oak table, trying to hide a small smile that was equal parts sad and happy. 

It is for you.

-

They were eavesdropping, and they felt guilty, but they couldn’t help it. Anji and Fitz were in the kitchen, and they could hear the amusement in her voice and the embarrassment in his. 

“I’m just saying, it’s pretty obvious,” Anji said teasingly. 

“It is not!” They could tell how flustered Fitz was without even seeing him, and they were fairly certain his face would be bright red by now, and, well…it was cute. He was cute.

“Mmhmm.”

“It’s just…it doesn’t feel right.” Fitz’s voice was suddenly serious, and a little bit sad, and their smile dropped. “They’re the Doctor. They’re like some sort of super action figure, for Christ’s sake, and I’m just…me.”

There was a long silence, and when Anji finally spoke, it was with the words they so desperately wanted to say. “You put yourself down too much.”

“Yeah, well…never had anyone tell me I was worth much till they came along. Not that they remember.”

They’d heard enough.

-

“I like humans.” The words were out of their mouth before they had a chance to think and they almost immediately regretted it.

“Oh.” Fitz paused, cup of tea halfway to his mouth. “Well, that’s good. We like you too, for the most part.”

They wanted to kiss him then, so badly, but they were nervous, and mumbled something about having to go check the console instead before fleeing.

They were a fool.

-

They never thought they’d come to like the smell of cigarette smoke or the taste of ash.

-

They were dying they were dying they were dying and their heart was gone give it back it was dirty and diseased and disgusting but it was theirs damn it give it back!

-

“It’s gone black,” Fitz said, holding up his wrist, and they could see that one of the tiny blue hearts had turned the color of pitch. They shrugged but didn’t say anything, and he waited. “I worry about you, you know,” he said into the silence. They still didn’t respond, but they knew. They always knew.

-

They found Anji in the butterfly room, looking at her arm. They sat down beside her, close, but not enough that their shoulders touched. 

“The color’s faded,” she said quietly, tracing the now empty mark. They kept quiet. “I’d been hoping…guess I was wrong.” She looked up at them with a sad smile. “You can’t make a copy of your lover and expect them to be the same. I know that now.”

Their one remaining heart hurt suddenly, but they didn’t know why.

-

They had a clock for a face, they had no eyes, they couldn’t see the mark, and they’d clawed at the smooth glass until their nails cracked and their fingers bled.

-

Fitz had been stolen and their wrist was burning. The colors were gone. She’d stolen him. She’d stolen the blue. 

They were going to strangle her until she’d given them back their Fitz and their colors.

-

“Long time no see,” they said, kissing his forehead. 

The colors were back were they belonged.

-

“Is this is handwriting?” They were sitting on the bed that sagged in the middle in the poorly lit room with the peeling wallpaper next to Anji. She looked at the postcard, one corner of her mouth twitching into a smile. 

“Yeah, that’s his.” She looked up, and they could see the question in her eyes. They glanced away, rummaging about in their coat pocket, fingers closing on ancient paper. They pulled the note out slowly, almost reverently, and passed it to her. Parting with it, even briefly, felt like losing part of themselves. 

They trusted Anji not to tear it. They trusted her not to hurt them.

“Do you recognize that handwriting?” They were staring down at their hands, fidgeting.

Anji shook her head and they were suddenly so afraid again, like they’d been a hundred years ago.

-

They were screaming they’d been screaming for hours their voice has given out but they were still screaming their ribs had gone through their back-

-

“I am the Doctor!” They yelled, and suddenly the mirrors are shattering around them, glimpses and fragments of their forgotten past falling to the floor and breaking apart. Like their mind, they want to say. 

A shard of glass cuts their cheek and they raise their fingers to their face. They’re bleeding.

They want to start laughing and never stop. 

-

Fitz is dead Fitz is dead they’re sending him off to his death and there’s nothing they can do to stop it he’s dead he’s been dead since they got that journal and it’s so unfair.

Anji doesn’t understand.

-

The TARDIS saved him, in the end. She loved him as much as they did.

-

Trix covered hers up with makeup, blended seamlessly enough that it looked like she’d never had one in the first place. They were impressed, despite themselves.

-

They wanted to scream. They wanted to cry. Instead they lock themselves in their room and ignore the meals Fitz leaves at the door. 

-

“I bet it’s something sparkly, like jewelry or I dunno…makeup.” Fitz is bored, lounging on the couch in the console room. Trix snorts. She doesn’t look up from her compact mirror.

“Not even close.” She snapped the mirror shut, giving Fitz one of those smiles she had. They watch from the console, vaguely amused.  
“Is it money? Your soulmate’s money, isn’t it.”

“Keep guessing, Fitz Fortune.” She strolled out of the room and Fitz looks at them. They shake their head.

Trix is a mystery and they don’t know if they like it or not.

-

They died, they think, but they’re better now. The nightmare’s over.

-

“I’m leaving,” Fitz said, and something inside of them breaks.

-

They don’t know how this story is going to end. The colors are still bright on their wrist and they will tear this universe apart if it means they’ll get to say goodbye.

-

They wake up again, so much older now. 

So tired. 

“Heal thyself,” they whispered, and suddenly everything is burning. They stared at the mark, watched the blue get eaten away by the golden radiance filling their veins. Did they ever say goodbye, in the end? 

They don’t remember.

They closed their eyes again.


End file.
